Who left me,
if I was too young
to know? I look into
the bathroom mirror
and touch the forehead’s
porcelain shelf, the twin
arches of brows floating
in the shape of stilled
metronomes. These lips
a boat, a pod set loose
with cravings for salt,
green tea, pork rinds,
cracked black
pepper chips— Who left
in me this strain,
this penchant for looking
out of windows, probing
the soil for any trace
of indigo? Every day
the backyard quietly
erupts with spring.
And for each flag
hoisted from the depths,
I salute the cost.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.